


Liquor and Beer

by TheMidniteOwl



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Awkward Flirting, Awkward Sexual Situations, Blow Jobs, Body Modification, Brainstorm's diplomatic solution: "Make Y/N bigger!", Closet Sex, Cockblocking, Cybernetic bodies, Drunk Sex, F/M, Giant!Reader, Oral Sex, Reader-Insert, Robot/Human Relationships, Semi-Public Sex, Xenophilia, blackout drunk, retractable dicks, via Roddy and Ultra Magnus
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-04-05 03:06:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19039906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMidniteOwl/pseuds/TheMidniteOwl
Summary: Apparently, for all the obvious differences between humans and Cybertronians, the social behavior follows similar, if not the same, patterns. Especially if booze is involved.AKA The things that start at bars...





	1. Drunk Sex - The Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

> Posting up and expanding some work I started on Rocksinmuffin and my Tumblr (witchofthesouls)
> 
> Influenced by:  
> Sensnsylan's Transformers cybernetic bodies on Tumblr  
> Radiojane's "Rewind's Data Log" animation on Tumblr  
> rocksinmuffin (Tumblr) and ss-shitstorm's Transformers x Reader inserts.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apparently, nail polish is bad for computers and Cybertronians.

 

As the Liaison for the _Lost Light,_ you’re required to attend all meetings, crew sessions, and (because Rodimus is the co-captain of his own frat party) “official social events.”

Last night was enthusiastically titled with an official banner: _Hurray, We Survived the Tentaks in the Vent Systems!!_ The added blocky glyphs underneath it translated to: **“ _All personnel are to report to the medbay for a complete check and a systems flush. This also includes you, Whirl.”_**

Swerve’s improving skills on human-safe cocktails, Rodimus’ terrible peptalk, your Earthbound friends’ wishes to loosen up and have fun, and the fact that you fell for all of it had led to _this_ morning:

Your head’s pounding, your mouth’s dry, you’re lying on a hard surface that’s a terrible excuse for a space bed, your sore ass is naked and cold and of course, the blankets have been kicked off but there’s a toasty body pillow right next to you. Like any other half-dead human via alien booze, you snuggle closer to said toasty body pillow and refuse to deal with the settling hangover or what other ridiculous memos Command sent out this cycle.

Body pillow then sneezes and you say, “Bless you.” and snuggle closer to it.

You’re naked -nakedly, _satisfyingly_ _sore,_ and the pillow is _fucking breathing_ and _just goddamned sneezed._

You blearily wake up to Trailcutter’s face and you rub eyes. Once then twice. Clearly you’re still drunk if you’re seeing dark humanoid body that’s connected to Trailcutter’s head rather than dark robotic, metal armor.

No, you’re not dreaming, but you don’t exactly rule out ‘currently still drunk.’ Trailcutter, sans armor that’s currently on the floor in pieces, is mainly black with dark grey blocks over his arms, you eye the thick, silvery lines and concentric circles all over those dark muscles.

Jesus Christ _,_ they're already good-looking _,_ but they're goddamn  _fit_ under all that gear.

You attempt to follow the stylized lines downward to find the rest of the _equipment_ , but nothing. Just a smooth crotch area without an actual dick or its equivalent. Squinting down there you could see some sort of raised ring structure, maybe Cybertronians can just tuck it in…

Trailcutter grunts and interrupts your intense questioning at his groin by rolling onto his back. The musculature ripples in the motion and your brain latches onto that image, admiring that form because you absolutely _can’t_ remember what the fuck happened after you pulled him on top after kissing him.

What you have is a hangover, quite a few hickies running down your torso and inner thighs, and a good ache between your legs.

What you left was an _insane_ amount of hickies on the poor bastard. You practically nibbled and sucked every inch of that ripped torso, especially his… nipples? Attachment sites? Frontal sensory units?

You give the ceiling a blank look, booze-soaked brain stalling and utterly confused… It’s far too early to figure out the correct terminology for Cybertronian nips and you go back to just appreciating the view of those solid pecs - a person can bounce a penny off them and kill someone.

You had hot alien sex _and you can’t remember it._ Your friends back on Earth would have to kick your ass after you’re done kicking yourself.

The communicator rings and breaks the trance. You attempt to sit-up and immediately _regret it_ as your core muscles scream absolute murder and you make a compromise with them by rolling off the berth and onto the floor with a semi-controlled _thud_. Luckily the mech doesn’t wake up from the continuous noise and your clothes are right there in grabbing distance.

 **RP** **: _Were u at? MM &R wan a mettin & i ned bak up_**

Never in your life did you think an ancient, alien race of mechanical giants would also have shitty spelling and grammar, and you never thought you would pick up said shitty spelling and grammar faster than the proper forms. You tap a quick message to Rodimus.

**Y/N: _You crashed?_**

There's an icon detailing Rodimus is actively typing as you’re trying to get dressed. Thankfully it’s only a shift dress to put on and you stuff the panties in the purse. You carefully pick your way through the sprawl of cubes and beer bottles to get the heels and to the door.

In the hallway, Rodimus only texted back a sad emoticon.

 **RP** **: :’(**

You reach your habsuite without seeing anyone and it’s a _godsend_ that everyone’s practically hungover at this point. You can’t find the necklace and it’s a shame. You got it on such a good deal.

 

* * *

 

Nearly a week later, Trailcutter finally goes to the medbay and it's Ratchet's shift.

“So what’s the problem?”

“Uh… Back’s irritated lately. Around the struts and shoulder links.”

“Well,” Ratchet gestures impatiently at him and wheels over behind Trailcutter. “Take it off.”

He releases the linkages and the suspensions loosen for Ratchet to peel away the armor plating. The medic hisses at the sight.

“What the _Pit_ did you do?! Lay on a bed of rusted nails or clanged Ravage?!” Digits prod over the scratches and Trailcutter winces as he runs over the raw ones.

“To be honest I’m not sure. I remember _Swerve’s_ and waking up in my berth.”

That’s not fully true. He remembers Y/N. You were leaning into him to talk over the roar of engines and drunken laughter and then Rewind came around for a vid and Skids belched in his face. You wrapped an arm around his neck and couldn’t make him budge even with the size increase, so you climbed over to peer down at Skids over his helm. He’s sure you said, _“Sorry, Skids. Got business with Mr. Eloquent here.”_

Then you and him were stumbling around the halls and words blurred into nonsense. You were laughing and smiling and pulling him forward to his habsuite.

This is what he clearly remembers:

There were cubes of engex and Earth bottles empty on the floor in his habsuite. You were sitting on Hoist’s berth and he was leaning against the wall on his own berth. He took another gulp, but it was and you were laughing. Tears dripping down your face.

“You’re drunk!”

“No. I’ma… I’m e _lo_ -quent.”

“And drunk.” You said with such seriousness before bursting into another round of giggles.

“No. No. _No_. W-watch,” He staggered over to you and kneeled. He carefully brushed away your hair and took in your flushed face with unsure digits - you were soft and warm and leaning into his touch. You look so different from the Liaison. Nothing like the cold and detached representative from Earth during meetings and on the bridge. A few of the other mechs commented that you were welded shut in more than one way but easy on the optics.

“What quote’s on yer mind now, hm?” Smile lopsided and eyes still laughing, "Seize the day? Life and lemons? Or how 'bout something with flamethrowers?"

“Yer-” he cleared the static, “You’re _beau_ -tiful. You’re brave to come out here. You keep Rod, Roddy… _Rodimus_ on track and do good work legal forms… and… and-”

He kissed you.

He then woke up alone in Hoist’s berth down to his protoform, a pleasant ache in his frame, and a numerous amount of taps all over his front.

Air sighs out of Ratchet’s frame and he could hear a bottle opening and sloshing liquids. Ratchet says, “You need to cut down on engex if you’re losing large chunks of memory. Now hold still, this is going to sting.”

He hisses as Ratchet pours over the medical cleanser right on his protoform, the rest of his armor pulls tight from the freezing liquid and fresh wave of pain.

“Relax, I have to get the infection out.” Ratchet wipes over with a cloth and pours more cleanser and repeats the process. “The scratches have foreign material that’s staining them. That’s why your protoform isn’t healing quickly.”

Trailcutter grunts and says nothing about the taps. Those are too nice of a reminder of that last memory… and of whatever happened afterward.


	2. Trailcutter, a gentleman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trailcutter had other ideas in the closet and Rodimus and Ultra Magnus have the worst timing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trailcutter is mainly using Cybertronian terms. He may have spent time on Earth, but he isn't up to date on human anatomy.
> 
> (The video mentioned is The Try Guys: Eugene Drinks Every State's Most Iconic Alcohol.)

There's a warm buzz in your skin and you give Swerve a lazy smile and two-finger salute for the newest drink creation he tailored for human consumption. Skids -the adventurer, the tryer, the “hold my beer” go-getter, is now pestering the bartender for his vast knowledge on Cybertronian drinks -specifically on each city-state’s most iconic drink and whether Swerve has the ingredients necessary to make each of them.

You _should_ feel sort of trepidation when Skids latched on remaking that _Try Guys_ vid where two high-functioning alcoholics down each US state's most iconic drink. God knows what will happen if Rodimus, Getaway, _and_ Brainstorm should conspire together along with Skids to make it true, but if two humans could survive through 46 different drinks (Apparently four states have severe alcohol restrictions.) then some hardy Cybertronians could do same. Right? _Right_?

Just how many city-states are on Cybertron right now? And will it be pre- or post-war?

You’re wondering if any of said city-states have similar restrictions and are there any equivalents of Zombies and Jungle Juice when the empty seat next to you is then taken up by Trailcutter.

“Hey there,” you say to him, smiling wide and pulse racing.

“Hey,” he says warmly before Swerve immediately comes over to take his order. His visor is brighter than usual, so he could have been hitting some cubes before he came over. Or...

You take a big gulp of your drink, face warming and forcing your heart to slow, and you fall back to watching Skids question Swerve as the bartender mixes each order. He's chuckling at Skids, rapt attention as he deftly moves through various containers of bright liquids and metallic solids and crystal powders. Swerve swiftly drops off Trailcutter’s cube and then piles on multiple Crayola-colored cubes on a tray before stepping out of the bar. You give Skids a cheery wave as he left to catch Mirage. You’re very much aware that Trailcutter's shifting around, tapping on the counter, and then you hear a hiss of steam.

“I think this is yours,” and you turn to see Trailcutter pull out the concentric rings pendant that went missing _that_ night and slides it over to your hand. You pick it up and turn it over, each ring shining brightly.

“You cleaned it?”

“Yeah,” His visor flashes brighter, optics visible with the intensity, his leg knocks against yours. “Found it in my armor.”

The thought flashes and it’s from the same voice that cajoled the outfit-of-the-night ( _None of the mechs have to know what you’re wearing underneath._ ), which overrides the usual social filter and it says, “You know, I should check you still have it. The chain, I mean.”

“Uhhh…” His optics fizzle out one by one -similar to a slow blink. “It’s… not in my habsuite?”

You laugh nervously, hoping you didn’t read him wrong, and you lean forward, trailing your fingers up his arm, lingering on edges and dips, “Could be with you right now. Hiding in one of the seams or right underneath. I should check. Second pair of eyes and all that.”

Over the roar of the bar, you feel a buzz as your fingers rest near the shoulder. He quickly tips back the rest of the cube and sends you a crooked smile that sends your pulse racing again, “Let’s go then.”

 

* * *

 

Trailcutter swipes his glossa over the parted flesh, dipping inside, and you grip his helm tighter. He wasn’t sure what he expected when he saw you and Skids at _Swerve’s_ at the countertop corner, but… not this.

Not that he’s complaining. Not at all.

The half-filled storage room’s dark except for the glow from his biolights and those flare up as you whisper filthy details on how he’s doing with his faceplate between your thighs. Your skin, when his servos are stripped down to the protoform, is warm and soft, like silicon but much more malleable -almost like a very supple protoform, strangely enough.

And then he registers the words you’re now saying: _filthier_ things about what you’re going to do to him.

He groans, thinking about all those scenarios, and his spike throbs in agreement, already dripping with pre-fluid and eager to start.

Trailcutter circles the fleshy nub and a sharp inhale cuts off your dirty talk. He looks up from between your legs and sees the outfit rumpled from being pushed up to your waist. Your pantyhose torn from his armored servos (You laugh off his sheepish sorry, “Those things? I’ve got a bunch of them back in my room.”) and your valve is framed by something called crotchless panties. The way the simple garment allowed access is similar enough to a Cybertronian cover under the pelvic plating, but the sight of your flesh opening up makes it far more erotic in its strangeness.

He spreads your thighs wider and cups your ass with one servo and the other slides from your knee along your thigh, and brushes over the wet flesh. You whimper as he pushes a thick digit inside and nips along the meat of those soft inner thighs.

He wants to peel off those clothes to kiss and nip and suck on your heated flesh and leave a trail of taps until he reaches up to your lips and pushes into your tight, willing body. He wants to know if you can fully take him. He wants to frag you until you’re dripping with transfluid down your thighs and-

-and Rodimus and Ultra Magnus are comming him. Right now. _At the same time._

**_::Have you seen, Y/N? She was last spotted at Swerve’s with you and Skids.::_ **

**_::Hey!! This is your captain speaking and we need our resident human and her awesome skills at other organics and legal scrap!::_ **

“ _Frag_ ,” he spits and pushes another digit inside, pumping faster, and swiping his glossa over the nub. You keen loudly and he feels slight pressure from your heels digging into his back plating as he finds a spot that made your insides _clench_ and attacks it, curling over it.

“Please, please, _please_. _Don’t you dare fucking stop_ ,” you hiss as your communicator beeps loudly and insistent. Your digits dig into the back of his helm, some scrapping over a neck port and unprotected protoform and it sends a jolt down spinal strut to his weeping spike. You let out a weak moan and your thighs tense and tightened around his helm, valve pulsing wetly into his mouth.

He’s hoping to Primus you just overloaded and dials down the pressure. You shouldn’t be charged up if you’re walking into the next disaster the _Lost Light_ hits on the intergalactic stage. Again.

 _“Rodimus to Y/N, do you read?”_ It must be serious if they triggered the override. _“We got a situation with the Doloric-”_ the rest of the report’s cut off when you slam a hand over the communicator and immediately reply, “Yes, I’m here. Just… give me a moment.”

You stare at him with a flush face and such a disheveled look… while he’s on his haunches with your lubricant on his faceplate and spike ready for the next round that’s not happening.

“So…” his voice is laced with static and attempts to clear it, “You’re good?”


	3. Under the Table

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You reciprocate on your own terms and Teebs is tortured (but utterly enjoys it).

“-and don’t get me wrong, I’m glad we have all the extra servos-”

“Uh-huh.”

“Apparently I’m not important enough actually _mean_ a decent schedule-”

“That’s t- _tough_ , mech,” Trailcutter’s voice hitches and it’s heavily laced with static. He takes another swig of engex and nearly spills a nearby cube.

The conversation continues like this for some time: Hoist getting his troubles out and Trailcutter interjecting with affirmations every now and then as he drinks up cubes and charge gathers and grows.

Hoist stops, mid-rant, and looks in concern when Trailcutter’s armor ruffles and vents out an immense amount of heat, “You okay there, mech? Not reaching the threshold already? ”

“O-oh, yeah. Never been bet- _ter_. Just started early tonight.” There’s a quick smile and he downs another cube. “I’m listening.”

 

* * *

 

Trailcutter isn’t ashamed to admit that he had some fantasies about you. Especially after the incident where Brainstorm’s solution left you just a little under an average mech’s height. _Especially_ , what happened after _Swerve's_. He doesn’t quite remember what happened in his habsuite, but he definitely has thoughts about the storage room.

(Actually, a lot of mechs thought about you. There’s been talk over coms and in Neocybex, but you seem not to have any inclinations for them. Or for any relationship. You never talked about anything about that part of your life. You’re so damn professional that it ruffles some mechs’ armor that an _organic_ doesn’t flinch at the level of absurdity that’s the _Lost Light_ and it gives Ultra Magnus such a peace of mind that you don’t add to said-absurdity.)

When you sent coordinates about Mirage’s bar after a week, Trailcutter comes in and he’s not surprised that you’re not there yet. You work long hours since something always seems to pop up -it could a disaster that threatens everyone’s lives or just Rodimus wanting your opinion on a new routine he got down.

 _Visages_ is a far calmer and a dark-themed if up-scaled counterpart to _Swerve’s_. The booth’s you've chosen is secluded enough for privacy and near the sound systems to cover any talk between you and him. He nearly pulled a Prowl or a panic bubble, but he sees your sheepish face under the table and he almost said your name, but you immediately put a finger to your mouth. _‘Shhhhh.’_

“Uhhh…” And then there’s a plate of engex cubes right there, the droid already flying back to Mirage at the bar, who’s focused on Perceptor. Trailcutter watches you trail your hands over his knees and up his thighs, your digits plucking the cables connecting to his panel. Heat warms his frame and he stares dumbly at you.

 _This isn't happening,_ he thinks. You tap over his panel and he retracts it, the spike tip peeking out of its housing. He’s hoping to any deity out there that Mirage doesn’t know what’s happening, and if those deities have a twisted sense of humor to send anyone to the booth right now, then he can snap it back and you could pretend that you’re looking for… a penny. Or a data-pad. Or something that falls under tables and innocuously lands between a mech's peds.

You give him such a heated look, keeping direct eye contact before applying a full, slow lick over the housing and tip and he fights the urge to not fully pressurize and smack you in the face.

“Primus take me,” he mutters and grabs the first cube, trying to be normal, keeping his cooling fans on low as his spike slowly extends under the table with you licking and swirling over the head and under the shaft. Your hands teasing the cabling of his thighs.

He keeps optics on the table, spike fully pressurized and eager, and sips engex as he feels your glossa gives a long lick from the base to the tip following the energon line and lapping off the pre-fluid that’s beading. There’s a slight pause and he can’t exactly bend under the table to see what you’re doing, but your hands return to grip him fully and they’re wet now. Trailcutter doesn’t know if it’s from your mouth or by lube but he doesn’t want it to stop.

Scanning over to the bar and seeing Mirage still preoccupied with other customers, he slips a servo underneath and lays it over one of your hands wrapped around him. He squeezes twice; you understand the message and increase the pressure until he gives a thumbs up.

His armor fluffs and shifts, trying to discretely disperse heat, and he enjoys your hands roughly pumping him. He’s pretending to be focused on the table that he nearly misses Hoist coming up to him.

“Hey, Trailcutter.”

He gives a wave with the not slicked-up servo and a quick smile. Unfortunately, Hoist takes it as an invitation to sit across from him. Annoyance and disappointment flares and resignation settles in, Trailcutter turns to Hoist and expects you to stop and wait for the mech to leave.

But you don’t stop. In fact, you start to _fraggin’ swallow him_.

The texture of human hands could be taken as the unamored thin digits of a blacksmith, but your mouth is _definitely_ an _experience_.

You’re wet. Your mouth is wet. He knew that from the storage room and from all the current teasing, but _frag_ , your mouth is much wetter and far warmer than a mech's intake, unless they had specialized high-end mods. Your glossa just slides smoothly and easily underneath and around him -it's supple, flexible, and conforms itself right onto the major lines and sensors, gathering the small bits of charge into a heady buzz in his pelvis. Whatever that can’t fit in your mouth is gripped tightly by your hands, stroking him.

 _Primus on a pogo stick_ , it’s terrible. You’re terrible. He wants to touch you. He wants to see you. He wants Hoist _to go the frellin’ Pits now_. Trailcutter’s really trying to follow Hoist, but all he can focus on the wet heat of your mouth and lips and hands on his spike.

Trailcutter nearly chokes as your glossa firmly traces up the main hydraulic and energon line, leaving crackling charge in its path as it's followed up by thumbs pressing along the pulsing lines. That glossa then swirls lazily over the node right under the spike tip with one hand pumping and the other one playing with the housing sealant. He swallows the whimper with another swig of engex. His hand digging into a leg seam and he imagines just taking your head and just _using you_. He could just reach down, hold your head in place, and rut into that slick, warm heat. Overload in that pretty mouth and feel you try to swallow everything. Just a little payback for torturing him.

If they were alone and somewhere else, he could have pulled you off and pin you to whatever surface available. Tease you like you’ve been teasing him; just grind his spike against the lips of your valve or use the magnet cuffs on your hands as he edges you over and over with his digits and mouth. Leave you all flushed and begging until he can’t take it anymore and just _frags_ you into an incoherent mess.

He can’t do any of that though. He can’t touch you without losing cover. Not without Hoist freaking out and everyone finding you blowing him right under the table.

Because you’re a terrible person, that mouth leaves the head and focus on the base. You concentrate on lapping over the sealant -the oral solvent is really conductive and it seeps into deeper under structures and circuitry. He’s _dying_ from the intense charge and that your digits firmly rub the spike tip, alternating with stroking over the sensitized node right beneath it. He can feel you move forward to nip the exposed protoform of his lower abdomen and you trail your lips down to the housing and up his spike as your hand abandons the node to pump the shaft. Your mouth encases the tip and then you suck _hard_ , glossa flicking over the node.

Mirage is staring with his _polite miffed_ expression and he… can’t function right now with a throbbing array.

_::I’m not to interfere with whatever activities mechs do, but tell your date to keep the underside clean. The last thing I need is mechs openly clanging on the tables.::_

You're back to swallowing him again and Trailcutter keeps his response short, sweet, and simple. _::Sure. Got it::_

Mirage gives their table such a pointed look. _::If I find any transfluid, I’m charging you the cleaning fee. It’s Rhodian Ironhide.::_

Trailcutter ruffles his armor and heat escapes in a steaming burst, he could feel the hum of confusion from you and it vibrates over the primed sensors. That’s… a lot of credits. Enough to upkeep a newly built flat in Iacon’s popular sectors. For three deca-cycles. _::Would never doubt you, Mirage.::_

Mirage lets him go but you pull off. A slick digit traces the word _okay_ over his protoform and luckily Hoist saves him on how to answer that.

“You okay there, mech? Not reaching the threshold already?”

“O-oh, yeah. Never been bet- _ter_.” You go back to pumping him again. “ Just started early tonight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those specialized mods that Teebs was talking about? Those were mainly used by high-class whores or favorite mistresses of very well-off mechs. I headcanon that these robots don't have produce enough spit to truly give a truly wet blowjob, and those mods include additional reservoirs that could be manually switched on (or forcibly triggered if a spike is slammed in). This also increases an intake's temperature and conductivity for fun times. 
> 
> Does Mirage know who's under the table? He has a strong idea but no confirmation since you used a cloaking device to sneak into the bar.


End file.
